The tiny fish that had schooled in the warm waters by the millions had dwindled in one area of the lake and then another. It was a collapse of unimagined proportions. Gone were the tiny kive fish, such an important source of protein fried or dried or ground into paste. Gone were the waterfowl that hunted them. Fading was the Halaly vigor-which had been so based on their reliable food sources-and dwindling were the tribute and trade that had made them the beating heart of the continent. If all that wasn't bad enough, the air swarmed with the mosquitoes and biting flies that now gestated in the lake untroubled by the kive fish that had once thrived on their eggs; one of these spread disease, while the other left welts on the skin that easily grew infected.
The dark-skinned men telling all this spoke with voices both angry and incredulous. They seemed to doubt the tale they told even as they spoke it. Mighty Halaly so weakened by a single fish thing? So enfeebled that the bites of an insect laid men low and feverish. They barely seemed able to believe their own words. And yet here they were.
"Has the creature taken any human lives?" Melio asked.
"It has," one of the councillors answered. "It does not hunt us for food, but many men have died trying to kill it."
Another added, "The Halaly have not rolled over and accepted defeat. No."
They had tried time and again to trap the creature, to poison it, to spear it or hook it or something. Thus far, though, they had only smashed boats and seen men broken and drowned. For the last few months they had put their energies into building a fleet of sailing skimmers, light vessels with large sails and compact hulls that could run even through the shallows. With nearly a hundred of such craft now, they had hemmed the beast in to the inlets of the eastern corner of the lake. It had grown so large that it was trapped in the deeper areas, and these they had limited by opening the dams to drain the lake more than usual. It was an extreme measure, but because of it the beast-fat and bloated as it was-had never been more vulnerable. They were ready, he said, to end it.
"Good," Mena said, trying to sound confident and yet respectful of the somber mood of the meeting. "I am glad we will be here to help you do so. I regret it took us so long to aid you, but there were many foulthings. Now, thankfully, there are only two more. One of those we'll kill tomorrow, yes?"
The councilmen answered her with nods, a few grunts-not exactly enthusiasm to match her own. Unsure whether the response was fatalistic or whether it was a comment on her delay in arriving, Mena said, "My family has not forgotten that the Halaly joined us in the fight against Hanish Mein. Truly, you are honored friends in our eyes. All of Talay is so."
Oubadal cleared his throat, the first sound he had yet added to the meeting. He looked quite different from when Mena had first seen him, years before when Aliver had summoned the might of all Talay to his banner. Then he had been in his regal years, slow moving and powerful, heavy and rich and sure of his ownership of his world. He had been insolent to the point of insult in his initial response to Aliver. Mena knew that. Back then, younger men had bowed to his authority, and behind him a chorus of the aged had praised his wisdom. Now the younger men did the talking; the aged were nowhere to be seen. Except, of course, Oubadal himself. His flesh hung limp around him, overripe and flaccid. The skin on his face was still rich and dark, but the eyes that looked out were fatigued, small.
"Your words are kind, Princess," Oubadal said. "You remind me of the Snow King, may he rest forever." He bowed his head at this and then righted. He set his bloodshot gaze on the princess and studied her, as if verifying for himself that he did see the resemblance he had just claimed. "When I first met your brother, I was not as respectful as I should have been. He was a cub in my eyes, a prince without a people to lead. And what is that but delusion? I thought him weak. And then when he died, I thought him unfortunate. Unlucky. I thought he had failed and I felt bad for him."
Though the council shelter was open to the air on all sides, it had grown very quiet within and without. A few crickets held long-distance conversations, but mostly it seemed the night had hushed to listen to the chieftain.
"I know now that I was mistaken on all counts," Oubadal continued. "He left this life in a swirl of noble battle. He left it a man in his prime, lean and strong, a lion whose jaws would yet have grown stronger. He left this life with the fight still in his breast. Many say so. That is how he will be remembered, as a lion. You hear me? Tongues will never tire of his name. Now, Princess Mena, I envy him. Heroes always die young. I should have realized that much earlier."
Mena, understanding the old man better now, rose from her cross-legged position and moved closer to him. She placed a hand on his. "Heroes always die, yes, but they need not be young. I don't believe that. Oubadal, you are a king among your people. You will be remembered as such forever. When I walk from here, I will remind the world how you steered your people through tumultuous times. I will tell them that your people had prepared everything to defeat this monster. You have already killed it. We are fortunate to be able to help complete what you have already all but accomplished. In a few days, we will hoist it from the water and end it. After that the fish will come back. Prosperity will return to your people."
Oubadal pulled his hand out from under hers and patted her with his fingertips. He smiled, sadly. "Dear girl, you don't understand. Yes, the fish will come back. Halaly will come back. My people may thrive again. But I–I won't see it all. Unlike your brother, I've had many, many days to come to understand this. I've had too many days. It is not easy." He paused, seeming choked by emotion, but he forced the moment to pass quickly. He coughed and then said, "Please, Princess, go with my men and see our new fleet. It is all we have left to fight the beast with."
Mena did as requested. Part of her wanted to stay with the old chieftain, wanted to let the others move away so that she could sit with him in solitude for a time. Here was a man who knew her brother and had sparred with her father when he was a young man. She wanted to comfort him, like a grown daughter might an ailing father. And, perhaps, she wanted to let him comfort her as well. Surely, tales of the past would help her make sense of the present. Wasn't that the way it was supposed to be? Couldn't she talk him through his melancholy and find within his long span of life greater meaning that would be a balm to them both? She believed so, but that was not the tenor of the moment. Instead, she bade him farewell for the time being and followed the younger men out to inspect the new fleet.
It was a sad tour. The Halaly tried hard to demonstrate their resolve, but the toll of the months of suffering and food shortages was palpable in every pause in the conversation, written in the haggard lines of women's faces and in the hunger contained within the ovals of children's eyes. The skimmer ships were interesting, but they looked like vessels meant for youthful recreation, not for battling a monster. Mena went to her tent aware that there was still much to be prepared physically and much to be repaired in the tribe's morale.
CHAPTER SEVEN
On the eve of his departure for the Other Lands, once all the preparations that could be made had been made, Dariel carved out a few afternoon hours to spend with his nephew, Aaden. He buried any appearance of worry about the coming trip under a string of fanciful tales. He was going to sail the Gray Slopes around the curve of the world and right into the great maelstrom through which the Giver had escaped! Yes, that's exactly what he would do. He was going to track the wandering god down and talk his ear off until he changed his mind and came back. And if he could find Elenet along the way, he would give the young man a piece of his mind. Stealing from a god like that? Mucking about with the Giver's tongue? The cheek of it! To do all this, he would have to be slipperier than a snake, smoother of tongue than a floating merchant, more cunning than a Sea Isle brigand.